


aperitivo

by hatsune miku (insectoid_demigoddess)



Category: DREAM!ing (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aged Up/Adults, Alternate universe - Mafia, M/M, Mentioned Relationship - Shinya Shibasaki/Shigure Hakka, Pre-Relationship - Jin Ryugasaki/Minato Ushiwaka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insectoid_demigoddess/pseuds/hatsune%20miku
Summary: aperitivo- (n.) an alcoholic beverage consumed prior to a meal with the intention of stimulating the appetite.A recommendation from the Bianchi don isn't the same as an offer that can't be refused - but Jin Ryugasaki accepts, nevertheless, to further the trust they had been steadily building in the months spanning their professional relationship. Upon his initial review, the Mercati Generali proves itself worthy of the don's commendations -at least, until a commotion on the dance floor leads to an unforgettable meeting.





	aperitivo

**Author's Note:**

> my heartfelt thanks @ the healthiest pot of veg i have ever had the pleasure of sitting on the same table with.

 

That week, Jin’s meeting with the young don of the Bianchi family took place on an unremarkable Thursday afternoon. There had been no need for clandestine arrangements or the exclusive privacy offered by the cover of night – it was a quiet month of industry-varied headlines and feature stories on breakout designers. In Jin's opinion, it was as apolitical as the press could get in the mellow weeks before summer hit the Mediterranean completely, an assessment that relaxed the young don considerably. As far as Shigure Hakka was concerned, the less waves made by the nevertheless thriving mafia in Sicily the better. For Jin, whose partnership with the Bianchi was borne from the subjugation of such waves, a peaceful month meant unquestionable success.

With little in the way of business to talk about, their conversation turned to the hustle and bustle of their city, as casual a topic as could be expected from any pair of young professionals sat at a booth, in any coffee shop in the city center. The fact that this pair was that of an international media superpower and the man at the pinnacle of the Cosa Nostra made the lightheartedness of their chat only slightly unexpected.

As of late, their business dealings had smoothened out into predictable highs and lows, and Jin had seen the invitation to a local café for the overture of trust that it was. In response to the gesture, Jin picked out a strawberry-tipped cannolo upon their arrival, and graciously accepted Shigure’s enthusiastic thanks for the treat, which was made even more meaningful when he added, as he was about to finish the dessert, “I’ll have to bring Shinya a box for him to enjoy.”

The corners of the Bianchi don’s eyes crinkled the way Jin noticed they always did whenever he spoke of his significant other. Shinya Shibasaki was a world-renowned surgeon and a leading figure in his field in both practice and research. Less publicly and owing wholly to a high school romance neither party found themselves eager to break off, he was also Shigure Hakka’s best guarded treasure, the one whose reputation Jin had been contracted to protect.

As the lynchpin of their partnership, Jin had taken it upon himself to maintain good relations with the bright and youthful surgeon, going as far as exchanging active contact details and indulging in similarly casual conversations. It was even one such chat that informed Jin of how the Bianchi don was partial to strawberries.

Jin knew then, at the mention of the surgeon’s presence, that their casual meeting had breached potentially tumultuous waters. Mindful of the Bianchi don’s preference for keeping details about Shinya Shibasaki sparse, Jin asked, “Will he be joining you for the shows in Agira?” The Sicilian Outlet Village hosted labels and shows all year round; new designers for the established houses would display their collections across seasons, and any one of them would have been a sight to see.

“We’re thinking of catching harvests at Marsala,” Shigure answered, after polishing off his dessert, and though he spoke in measured tones, Jin had been able to see all too clearly how his smile still reached his eyes. He had been acquainted with the don for more than a handful months, but it occurred to Jin only then that he was right to keep an iron-fisted control over the safety of his significant other.

Looking at Shigure’s face, anyone could tell how deeply he loved Shinya Shibasaki, and any opportunistic second or family would have made plans to use him as leverage against the Bianchi don, had they known the extent of his feelings. For Jin, it humanized the don beyond their dealings, and made Shigure Hakka that much easier to understand.

As Jin’s personal attendant approached their table with a box of strawberry-tipped cannoli in hand, Jin commented, “The vineyards would be anticipating the tourist season.” He allowed Chizuru to present the don with the pastry box and continued, “It’ll be a lively vacation, but I hope you enjoy yourselves despite the crowd.”

The don’s face, which had brightened briefly at the sight of the cannoli, fell at the mention of tourists, and from there, their conversation veered back into more leisurely topics, foremost the influx of tourists in the coming seasons. The vineyards at Marsala held the unenviable position of being a budding tourist trap, and Jin had skimmed over more than a few feature articles and segment pitches about the area’s winery visits and wine tasting tours. Shigure had shaken his head against the notion of touring, professing that he would much prefer a more ‘stay at home’-styled vacation in a villa, “Ah, but we may venture out clubbing, if the mood strikes.”

It was Jin’s turn to make a face over talk of clubs. Several “reborn” establishments had invited him for the chance to merit a glowing review from the Ryugasaki media mogul. He had responded with his direct acceptance to most of them, and made plans to send out representatives to the rest, but of the invitations Jin had accepted, only a few met his personal standards. The bars and nightclubs of Sicily, while aesthetically pleasing and featured expansive local and foreign selections of musical talent, drinks, and food, had been inundated with the presence of intercontinental visitors, who brought with them a different energy from what he had come to appreciate from the Sicilian nightlife. Still, these new visitors had not been particularly rowdy or ill behaved, and good humor tinged Jin’s lamentation for the loss of the exclusivity that came with the clubs’ previously purely Italian guests.

“At least the models that fly over for the shows at the Fashion Village are easy to mingle with,” he concluded as a concession, to which Shigure had given a nod and a blithe observation about how such types tended to be pleasant to look at and speak with, but only for short bursts of time.

With their plates and cups emptied, Jin knew the conclusion of their meeting was nearing, and he signaled to his personal attendant to settle their bill. After a moment spent considering something on his phone, Shigure informed Jin that he had sent him an invitation to a nightclub lying to the south of Mount Etna, ensconced in the middle of blood orange groves.

The location tipped Jin off easily – he was expecting a feature article from one of his representatives about a UK-based DJ’s recent visit to the same club. “The _Mercati Generali_?”

Shigure nodded then, “It has my commendations for its drinks, and I believe you’ll find the atmosphere more to your liking.”

It had not come as a surprise to Jin that they both acknowledged their gradual shift from business partners to something resembling professional colleagues; the Bianchi don had proven amiable to work with, and they had gained each other’s mutual respect through concrete results and fulfilled agreements. Nothing about his recommendation made it “an offer that couldn’t be refused”, yet Jin felt compelled to give the don his agreement. Perhaps, Jin had thought, this was what could pass as friendship, for both of them.

Thus, to further the trust building between them, Jin accepted Shigure’s invitation. 

 

* * *

 

From within the sprawling warehouse that had once been the heart of the Vespa family's vineyard, smooth, low notes dripped like syrup from a saxophone, a guitar, and a piano. At just past ten in the evening, guests were arriving in trickles of two’s and three’s, lulled to idling at the club’s main outdoor area, where a DJ would later set up to play for the crowd, before moving inwards to the bar. Freestanding and slim-built fish tanks, backlit with the same LED fixtures that lit the floor, divided the dance hall that could comfortably hold half a hundred people. Seats in this area were minimal, clustered around the bar and corner cocktail tables; though for the VIP, private booths were sectioned off at the higher levels accessible only through the steel staircase next to the bar.

Outside, climbing vines and fragrant blooming orange blossoms and white jasmines adorned both the stage and the cushioned concrete benches that formed a wide half-circle around it. Scattered pools of candles, burning undisturbed by the pleasantly temperate breeze, lit the way for the patrons who preferred to enjoy the live musicians up close while they nursed the club’s various aperitivo. In another hour, the festivities would begin in earnest with the arrival of the night’s featured talent, but until then the light jazz trio would play their siren call for the Sicilian nightlife cognoscenti.

In his seat above the milieu, with a view of both the inner and outer areas, Jin drinks to the Bianchi don’s taste and assessment of his preferences. There would definitely be a feature on the experience-centered environment of the _Mercati Generali_ , even if Jin had to pen it himself. From the physical layout to the décor, to the choice of musical talents paired with manmade light designs and natural ornamentations, to the varied menu and drink offerings, Diego Vespa’s redesigned wine-press warehouse catered to a higher level of clubbing untouched by even the most successful establishments in the region.

As they watch guests vacillating between the bar below their booth and the open area outside, Jin converses with his personal attendant and nurses his drink in leisure. The club’s artistic director had sent up their signature cocktails – a God Father with home-brewed scotch and an Angelo Azzurro whose Blue Curacao-tint echoed the ambient floor-lights – and he and Chizuru had agreed to flip to see who accepted what, but not before Chizuru ensured that nothing untoward had made it into their drinks.

While the Ryugasaki had had previous dealings with prominent Sicilian families, similar measures had not been necessary just then. It was only with the advent of his professional relationship with the Bianchi don that heightened precautions became part of his and Chizuru's usual routine. A typical check of unsavory substances was conducted quickly so that Jin would not appear needlessly paranoid, as well as to avoid insulting the host. Chizuru would pass him his drink if it met standards; otherwise, they would undertake a swift exit.

That night, Vespa's concoctions passed muster without question, and Jin sips without concern at his second orange-themed drink, having started the night with the negroni he personally watched the bartender prepare. Both drinks merited their price and fame, and Jin finds himself gauging his tolerance for another glass later on.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself, Jin-san,” Chizuru comments into the comfortable not-quite silence between them, his fingers keeping time with the jazz trio winding down their set.

In lieu of a response, Jin merely holds out his glass for a toast. 

 

* * *

 

The energy in _Mercati Generali_ changes after midnight: the candles are extinguished, leaving the fish tanks, floor-lights, and dim overheads to cast ethereal kaleidoscope shades over the club. The live instruments are put away and a DJ assumes control of the stage, spinning tracks pulsing through the numerous speakers. From his vantage point, Jin watches a flock of models – for how could they be anything else, in their draping clothes and glittering accessories, on shoes that herald their arrival before their chatter does – descend upon the bar just as the DJ throws out a track of EDM.

From the beat alone, the difference from the earlier set is striking; Jin walks to the metal railing trailing from the staircase that bisected his booth and that of another group of patrons, and watches the younger crowd making their way around the maze of the LED-lit dance floor. He recognizes faces - high profile clients, established nouveau designers and their models - that eventually blur into a mass that writhed and undulated at the command of the music.

With a critical eye, Jin picks apart the tracks, the lighting that transformed to match the rhythm and the club goers who advance and retreat from their own tables and booths in between songs, like waves following the tide. Vespa had obviously focused much effort in maintaining the club's environment, and as one who held similar strings in managing the press and their objects of fancy, Jin could appreciate a well-laid plan coming to fruition.

As he makes his way back to his seat, he catches the gaze of a fellow VIP-level patron as he descended the steel staircase. The man is familiar in bearing and the cut of his suit – a capo from a family based in Palermo, civilly acquainted with the Bianchi. If he recognizes Jin is another matter altogether; they break their moment of eye contact with an acknowledging nod, before continuing on their separate ways. Jin returns to his seat, and when the capo had reached the dance floor, Chizuru leans close to report in a voice modulated for only Jin to hear that he had identified not more than four of the capo’s soldiers milling about the floor; not enough to be threatening, but an adequate number if any trouble surfaced.

Jin would have to mention this sighting to Shigure, as an aside to his personal review of the club. The flatlands surrounding Mount Etna did not strictly belong to one particular family, but if there were businesses to be made between civilly conducted families, Jin knew that Shigure would not be against canvassing another neutral territory to make use of. He would certainly not be out of place amongst the _Mercati_ ’s clientele, which Jin saw welcoming both young and old as long as they were of a particular upper class.

The capo was one of the few older patrons who kept to their tables until a certain shift in the music. No doubt, they were looking for an extension of the night’s festivities, for which the pickings were rich – the models Jin recognized were suitably young and beautiful, and judging by their uninhibited consumption of any and every drink sent their way, entirely amenable to company. As the DJ set up a slower, more intimate track, Jin watched as the capo approached a knot of blondes and brunettes, singling out one in a pristine white dress. Dismissing the capo’s clearly broadcasted target – he had no desire to watch a late middle-aged man prey on a barely twenty-year old waif – Jin turns to his personal attendant, intending to send him down for another round of the cocktails they had mutually enjoyed.

Suddenly, a shout completely discordant with the mellow music flowing from the speakers pierces through from the dance floor.

It was a model – rather, _the_ model that Jin had pegged as the capo’s target. The other guests on the floor were drawing away from where she was struggling to remove her arm from the capo’s grip. Her companions seemed uncertain as to whether they would do the same or stay, save for a tall brunette in a houndstooth-patterned jacket who stood next to the woman and was attempting to pull her away from the capo. Two of the capo’s soldiers then stepped in, solidly separating the pair from the rest of the models, walling them in with the capo and the rest of his soldiers.

Wordlessly, Jin stands and makes his way down to the scuffle, fully intent on diffusing the situation before force became necessary.

Chizuru is at his side in one moment, then boldly breaking up the soldiers’ formation in the next. Normally an inoffensive and slight presence, Jin’s personal attendant cut an intimidating figure once upright; though physically smaller than the group he had just dispersed, Chizuru’s sharp remarks delivered in gutter-slang Italian comes like a backhand to the faces of the capo’s soldiers, who waver in their places enough for the capo himself to adopt a similarly confused expression. As he cast about his gaze, perhaps gauging if this dissenter had backup on the way, the capo meets Jin’s eyes once again.

The recognition is not instantaneous, but even before it registered to the capo exactly _who_ Jin was affiliated with, he had already taken a step back, away from Jin’s advancing figure. Toe to toe with the capo, Jin stands mere inches taller, but the way he looked down at the capo radiated presence more than could be metrically measured.

“Were you looking to start a party of your own, _signore_?”

Separated from his soldiers, whom Chizuru was caging neatly from coming to their boss’ aid, the capo’s pompous air had all but vanished. His face had turned pale as he mouthed ‘ _Bianchi’_ in a hush, and his hands spasm over his lapels, torn between straightening them out in a gesture of self-possession and reaching in for something to articulate his pre-supposed upper hand. Not that anything he pulled out – a gun or a billfold – could have changed the situation at all.

In the absence of an actual reply from the capo, Jin takes another calculatedly daunting step forward. Beneath the DJ’s next track, Jin hears the capo curse as he jerks backward, nearly colliding with a fish tank-wall.

“I would suggest,” Jin begins in a tone that allowed no pointless thing like a _refusal_ , “That you take your party elsewhere.” He glances then at the pair of models standing being shuffled away by their companions under Chizuru's watch, before turning back to pin the don with a warning gaze, “Perhaps somewhere with more willing guests.”

Spots of color erupt on the capo’s face; having finally found his voice, he spits a curse at Jin – and, the family he was attached to, albeit indirectly – before darting away on shaky legs, followed closely by his soldiers once Chizuru released them. Though cowardly and ineffectual, Jin knew that there was still the possibility that the capo would wait them out for a chance at retaliation. He nods at Chizuru, who quickly slinks through the reforming crowd, once again unnoticeable and unassuming, at least until he happened upon the capo and his soldiers. Jin trusted his personal attendant to dissuade the capo from carelessly acting on any rash ideas – and dealing with the fallout, should the capo insist on doing otherwise.

With a calmer demeanor, Jin moves towards the bar where the models had been brought by their companions, ostensibly for some bracing drinks. The woman in white sees him approaching, and immediately sits up and starts showering him with thanks and praise. Taking their cue, the other models follow suit, save for the few who were still deciding on their drinks – one of whom, Jin notices, being the brunette in houndstooth. He returns his focus on the woman, who enthusiastically introduces herself as Henrike, and her invitation to dine and drink with them as thanks.

“I would be honored to,” and at this, Henrike’s and her companions’ faces brighten, until Jin continues, “But I would hate to impose on you ladies when you’re only looking for a relaxing night.”

The models chorus their negations and pleas for his reconsideration; Henrike even tugs at the brunette beside her, “Minà, say something to our hero!”

At her behest, ‘Minà’ turns, facing Jin with an open, heart-shaped face, curtained slightly with a delicate fall of hair that seemed fated to spill over the curve of an unadorned ear. Unnaturally striking green eyes regard Jin curiously, before lighting up in recognition; as Jin stares, Minà’s faintly glittered mouth blooms into a wide smile.

“Our hero?” Minà echoes wondrously, with an unidentifiable accent lending a dreamy lilt to the words; at that same moment, Jin notices the air in the club suddenly turning warmer, as heat suffused through his skin and settled there, like the way Minà’s gaze lingered on him.

He realizes belatedly that Minà is the only male model in the group when he stands, a peach-colored drink in hand, and comes up nearly at the same height as Jin himself. “Maybe our hero,” Minà says, still in his faraway-sounding voice that nevertheless resounded clearly in Jin’s ears, given how closely they now stood together, “just needs a drink first. Have you tried Nico’s golden rosé margarita?” At less than an arm’s length away from Jin, he offers up his glass with an entreating smile. Vaguely, Jin notices the DJ had put on a new track, something that sent reverberations throughout the club in steady pulses that Jin could feel under his own skin.

“I couldn’t accept,” Jin replies, dimly aware of the rest of the models starting up their pleas again; well meaning as they may be, Jin was not in the habit of pandering to pretty faces and foregoing his strictly maintained code against drinks or food neither he nor Chizuru had not tested beforehand. He lifts his hand to a slim wrist, nudging the offered drink gently back towards Minà, who merely blinks and purses his lips in a puzzled pout at the gesture.

After a moment, he smiles again – and again, the kick in the dance hall’s temperature makes itself obvious to Jin, for some absurd reason – and says, “Because it’s new, right? Here, I’ll taste it for you.”

And with his lips tinged pink and gold like his drink, Minà takes a sip, his eyes falling shut as if to better savor the flavor. Something must have happened at the outdoor stage just then, Jin thinks in a detached sort of reverie, as the music faded slightly, though he could still feel the pulses of the track’s beat. After a long sip, which left little more than half of the frothy drink intact, Minà takes the hand that Jin had somehow rested on his forearm and curls its fingers around the delicate stem of the glass.

“There,” Minà says, and Jin’s gaze strays inexplicably to the rim of the glass, stained pink and faintly glittered. Minà squeezes his hands around Jin’s, “It’s good! It tastes like how roses make you feel.”

Abruptly, Jin replies, “I’ve never felt a thing like that in my life.”

“Oh,” the smile on Minà’s face falls into an expression of such earnest distress, Jin barely registers Chizuru’s return and presence at his back. “Jin-san?” He senses Chizuru advancing from his side; with a discrete movement of his free hand, Jin halts his personal attendant’s approach.

“Though I suppose there’s no time like the present, for new experiences,” and with that brusque rejoinder, Jin turns the glass, places his lips right over where Minà’s had been, and drinks.

Henrike and her companions clap and cheer at his concession, before turning back to the bar and calling out orders. That alone should have excused Jin from indulging Minà further, but the model’s eyes remained fixed on Jin as he drank; framed with lashes that fluttered subtly as he blinked and cheeks colored with a rosy hue, the face Minà made as he watched Jin radiated a strangely compelling aura. By taste alone, Jin knew nothing unseemly had made it into Minà’s drink – therefore begging the question of _where_ this feeling originated from.

Jin returns the glass, now with only a quarter of the fruity concoction left, to Minà, who appears unbothered by the fact. Instead, he squeezes Jin’s hand in approval, before taking an unselfconscious sip from the rim where Jin had smudged his lip-gloss. The act throws Jin’s suspicions of any type of guile or trickery from the model neatly out the window – which, perplexingly, left only the possibility that Minà was being entirely genuine.

“So, Minà—”

“It’s good, right? Like roses?”

Was it the music? The almost muffled quality of the track that left only its bass notes to be felt? Or perhaps it was the air of the dance hall itself, filled so close to capacity that even the breeze from the outdoor stage could not temper the heat circulating within its walls? Whatever the case, Jin finds himself rooted in place, his attention drifting from the suddenly dulled atmosphere of the club to linger on the model idly patting his hand.

“Like roses,” Jin parrots back, earning himself a laugh that carried its dulcet tones above the crowd that existed in Jin’s periphery. “You should have more,” Minà says, tugging Jin to the bar and nudging him to the seat he had earlier occupied. Chizuru immediately appoints himself at Jin’s side, which Minà fails to notice as, just before he could sit himself next to Jin, Henrike accosts him, linking their arms and tilting their heads close together in an affectation of privacy. Chizuru takes the chance to inquire wordlessly after Jin, who replies with a brisk, reassuring nod.

“Perhaps, Jin-san would like to extend an invitation to his booth?” Chizuru asks, and Jin latches onto the concrete thought with an alertness he had not felt since what seemed like hours ago, when he’d first stepped up to the capo. He turns to Minà, intending on buying him another drink before inviting him up – and his companions, Jin belatedly remembers to add – only to find him being led away by Henrike.

“Minà—?”

The call of his name catches Minà’s attention, and he half-turns in Henrike’s hold to wave at Jin, mouthing his farewell with the same dream-like smile he wore when he first faced Jin not even half an hour ago. A sharp pull on his arm nearly makes Minà stumble, but all it ends up doing is freeing his hair from where it was tucked behind his ear. Under the overhead lights and between the fish tank-walls cutting through the dance hall, Minà looks ethereal as they make their way through the crowd, like a vision that would disappear if Jin so much as blinked one too many times.

And disappear he does, before Jin could rise to his feet to follow him, swallowed by the undulating crowd.

 

* * *

 

For a long moment after the models’ departure, Jin sits speechless, his gaze fixed on the glass Minà had left – and then, when the bartender returns from his rounds with the other patrons at the bar, he looks up and orders a drink.

“A golden rosé margarita.”

**Author's Note:**

> locations:  
> \- mercati generali is a real club at sicily; i fudged some designs tho but the real place looks really cool ([ "x" ](https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2008/jun/25/sicily.bars))  
> \- the cafe jin and shigure were at is the cafe del duomo, at piazza duomo ([ "x" ](https://thetravelbunny.com/catania-cafe-bar/))
> 
> notes:  
> \- what little i know about jin and minato, i felt could make a beautiful relationship. then i checked their zodiac compatibility and promptly lost it. ([ "x" ](https://www.indastro.com/aries/aries-pisces-compatibility.html))  
> \- jose cuervo released the golden rose margarita and it looks exactly like something minato would drink ([ "x" )](https://vinepair.com/booze-news/jose-cuervo-rose-margarita/)


End file.
